She hadn’t been happy in a while now.
I’m sorry I left you, Chere. It was better that way.
Now I was just back from Edinburgh, skulking around the same coffee shop, watching her leave Norton with her curly-haired buddy. They’d been hanging out for a couple weeks now, but he wasn’t her boyfriend. I’d checked. No, he was gay as fuck, and steady and well-adjusted, so I approved. He smiled at her and seemed to care about her. She needed that, all those things I could never give her. Kindness. Nurturing. Love.
I preferred hurting and mindfucking to love. I liked rough, encompassing control and sexual mayhem. Unfortunately, Chere didn’t need another asshole taking over her life and jerking her around. Oh, I would have treated her better than Simon, but I wasn’t sure it would feel better to her, because she was looking for romantic, caring love, and I had none of that to give.
I have nothing against romantic love. I don’t care if other people want to believe in it, but I personally think it’s shit. I think it’s fake, imaginary, stupid, a fairy tale made up for the weak and needy people of the world. It’s a construct created to sell roses on Valentine’s Day, and seats at fantasy-fulfillment chick-flicks. I avoided romance as a rule, even if I’d written out a few lovey-dovey poems for a bleach-blonde prostitute. Momentary weakness, nothing more.
Now Chere had dark hair and spiral curls she tugged on while she sat at her computer working on her design projects. I wanted to fuck those curls. I wanted to fuck Chere, but I couldn’t, because I wasn’t what she was looking for. She’d taken so many positive steps to turn around her life. She was in school. She was kicking ass. I had to leave her alone. She was serious about becoming a designer, and she’d be happier as a designer than an escort. As much as I enjoyed fucking her, she wasn’t for me.
But sometimes I wished she was for me. Sometimes I sat in the dungeon next to my bedroom and imagined her bound to the rack, or manacled to the chains anchored in the ceiling. Sometimes when I stared at her through my binoculars, I imagined knocking on her door and inviting her to my place, and taking her in that dungeon and keeping her there, even against her will.
Chere thought the worst thing between us was the leaving. She was wrong. The worst thing was what I had started wanting from her by the end, what I still wanted from her with inappropriate intensity: her tears and misery, her trembling surrender, and my selfish perversity unhinging her soul.
Chere
Andrew half-skipped, half-walked me down a silent hallway, past office doors and faint fluorescent lights. It was almost midnight and the studio wing was closed, but Andrew knew the night guard and managed to get us in.
“Are you sure we’re allowed to do this?” I asked.
He turned back to me. “You heard what I told Grayson. I have a project to finish. I might have lied when I said it was due tomorrow, but I want you to see it.”
“I thought we were going to do something fun, not hang out in the paint lab. I don’t make you hang out in the metals lab.”
Andrew rolled his eyes. “Because the metals lab is horrifically boring. Spoons and drain grates and thermostat covers. Kill me.”
I designed spoons and drain grates and thermostat covers, and I knew Andrew was only kidding. When he got out of Norton, he’d probably take some workaday design job too until he caught a break with his painting.
“It’s called the Norton School of Art and Design,” he went on. “Notice which one they put first? Art. We’re the acknowledged badasses of this place.” He pumped a paint-stained fist, pretending not to notice when I muttered something about asses. “Besides, it’s fun hanging out in the studio at night.”
“How is it fun?”
“It’s fun, Chere. It’s peaceful and super cool, and you can look up at the night sky.”
I followed him a few steps farther, and then the smell reached me, the odor of stripper, primer, and oil paint. It transported me right back in time to my ex’s art studio.
“Jesus.” I stopped in the hall. I wanted to see Andrew’s work, but that smell triggered too many memories.
“I know.” Andrew wrinkled his nose. “The stench of creation. You get used to it.”
“It’s not that.”
He looked at me a moment, then understanding dawned. He reached for my hand.
“Are you thinking about Simon? Don’t think about Simon.”
The first night, over coffee, Andrew had wanted my “painful and fucked-up story” and it had been easier to talk about Simon than W, so that was the fucked-up story I told. Andrew had already known who Simon Baldwin was, because Simon was the current darling of the New York art scene. Since we’d broken up, Simon’s career had gone stellar, his drug-fueled mania and erratic craziness driving his burgeoning talent to unforeseeable heights. Critics dubbed him the Tribeca Train Wreck, tsking at his narcotic shenanigans while they crowed about the genius of his work.
And they were right, his paintings were genius. Since I’d left Simon, the art had come at a frenetic pace, the paintings and murals, the packed galleries and sold-out shows. He’d attracted a major following, not just in New York, but also in the international art world. I tried to be happy for him. It was hard.
When Andrew learned how abusive Simon had been to me, he looked like he’d been stabbed by a unicorn. But Andrew was faithful to our friendship and immediately demoted his hero from “best artist of all time” to asshole. He’d done that for me, because he was that kind of person.
“Maybe this will be good for you,” he said, tugging me forward. The smell was getting worse. “It’ll be good for you to be around painters who aren’t psychotic, abusive assholes.”
“But no one else is here.”
“I’m here! And you know what I mean. It’ll be good for you to be around art stuff. To be in a messy, creative place with good energy. You need good energy, girl.”
“I need to go to bed. It’s late.”
We reached a heavy door marked PAINTING STUDIO. Andrew swiped his student ID and the lock clicked open.
The smell inside turned out to be ten times worse than the smell in Simon’s studio, I suppose because this room was ten times bigger, with easels, canvases, and paint-strewn tables and work benches arranged in a mish-mash pattern.
“Come on,” he said, guiding me toward the center of the studio. We wove around corners, past half-finished paintings that looked ghostly under weak work lamps.
“Why is it so dim in here?” I asked.
“It’s best to paint by natural light.” He pointed at the ceiling, at rectangular skylights. “The lighting’s designed to complement, not illuminate. This studio’s not meant to be used at night.”
“It’s freaking creepy.”
“I know.” He grinned. “I love it.”
He left me and darted between two workstations, disappearing from sight. “Andrew?” I peered into the dark corners. “Come back.”
“Just a sec,” he called from a few rows over.
I hugged myself, trying to figure out if it was the ghostly lights or the reminders of Simon that made me so uneasy. I remembered all of this: the paintbrushes, the cans, the palettes and color-streaked towels, the thick, enveloping smell...
I jumped as music blasted through a speaker a few feet away. Andrew said “Oops” and turned it down a dozen decibels or so. Trippy 60’s music wafted from all four corners of the room, and Andrew reappeared, brushing an errant blond curl back into the mop barely contained by his furry fuchsia scrunchie.
“Evermore,” he said, pointing to the nearest speaker.
“This band is Evermore?”
“The band is Led Zeppelin. The song’s called The Battle of Evermore. Geez, you’re in art school. Why don’t you know stuff?”
Andrew’s insults were always delivered with a smirk that made it impossible to feel pissed. He grabbed my hand again. “My carrel’s over here. I’ve been working on some paintings for my senior exhibit. Come see.”
I’ve been working on some painti
ngs. Come see. Simon used to say that to me, at least until he got strung out on drugs and turned into another person. Andrew’s workspace was near the back corner, a disorganized but joyful explosion of color. Unlike Simon, Andrew painted real things, people who drew you in, and everyday objects that made you look twice. I’d seen some of his work at his apartment, but I’d never seen it in progress, spread around makeshift walls.
“This looks so...creative,” I said. “You hang out here every day?”
“Whenever I can. We’re old school in the paint lab. We can’t do our projects on computers like you design nerds.”
“I’m not a nerd, thank you.”
“You are, but that’s okay.”
Andrew’s work was like his personality, clear and fresh and unaffected. You couldn’t not look, and one look was all it took to fall in love.
“You’re going to be famous someday,” I said. “How could anyone not want to own this?” I pointed to a work in progress, a young child in rough brush strokes. Boy or girl, it was hard to tell, but the features glowed. “Who is that?”
“The daughter of a friend. She’s adorbs.”
“It’s the most beautiful portrait I’ve ever seen.”
He blushed. One of his curls had broken loose again, a corkscrew of energy, like Andrew’s soul. I smoothed it back behind his ear.
“You’re too nice to me,” he said. “Why are you so nice to me?”
I looked into his eyes and didn’t answer. We’d been hanging out a lot since we struck up our unlikely friendship at the fetish club. We’d grown really close, even though we were different in so many ways. I was a decade older than him, and hetero, and an ex-prostitute, although I hadn’t been brave enough to reveal that to him yet.
I sat on the edge of his carrel, a rolling workstation that doubled as an art pedestal. The music had changed to a quieter, more contemplative song, and I thought how fortunate I was to have Andrew in my life. Before him, I’d pretty much forgotten how to feel things. Or maybe I’d decided not to feel things. Now a bunch of feelings caught me by surprise. Hope, wonder, maybe...happiness? The kind of happiness that felt sad at the same time.
Andrew lay back across the platform, knocking over a can of brushes. We scooped them up together, and he placed the can on a nearby desk. By the time he returned, I was lying back on the platform too. I could see gray clouds through the skylights, and the looming shadows of nearby buildings.
“I come here for the peace,” he murmured. “It’s very peaceful, to be in a place full of art. Maybe you don’t feel that way, after Simon…”
He touched my side. It was a friendly touch, a comforting touch. That was the nice thing about gay friends. You didn’t have to worry about them making some kind of uncomfortable move during an emotional moment.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry if being here is bringing back bad memories, and I’m sorry your ex was an abusive prick. Why isn’t he in prison or something? With the drugs, and the stuff he did to you?”
“I guess because he’s good at surrounding himself with enablers. I stayed with him for years, and explained away all his shit. Somehow I turned ‘He’s abusing me’ into ‘He needs me.’ How sick is that?”
I stared up at the sky, like it might have answers. Even Andrew didn’t have answers.
“I want to meet someone well-adjusted,” he said. “Someone nice. I want to love someone.”
“I don’t have the Y-chromosome you need, or I’d beg you to fall in love with me. You’re handsome and kind, and you have beautiful hair.”
“Aw, Chere.”
“You’ll find someone. You’re the easiest person in the world to talk to. You’re considerate. You’re vivacious.”
“I’m anxious. I’m obsessive. I’m clingy in relationships. I put up with total bullshit just to spend the night with someone. Most of the time, I’m like a starving stray dog, grateful for scraps.”
That was my cue to say something reassuring and uplifting, but I had nothing. I’d lost faith in happily ever afters long ago. “The problem with love is that there’s only a one in a hundred chance it’ll work out,” I said. “I mean, that’s just science.”
“Really? That’s been scientifically proven?” Andrew wasn’t buying it. He formed his fingers into the shape of a heart and held it above us. “I believe in love. I just have to find it. That’s your one-in-a-hundred chance: not just finding that person the universe has set aside for you, but recognizing that he’s the one. I understand your issues since you got burned so bad in your last relationship, but there’s someone out there for you.”
“I don’t want anyone.”
He made an impatient noise and let his fingers drop. Our heads touched as we stared up at the same patch of wispy clouds. The music swirled around us, wistful, slow, melodious, as complex as our feelings and the general screwiness of life. Don’t think about him.
Not Simon. It wasn’t Simon haunting me.
I’d rather have the want of you, the rich, elusive taunt of you...
“You know what I want?” said Andrew, breaking into my thoughts.
“What do you want?” I replied in a soft voice.
“I want someone to love me for me. With all my faults and shortcomings, with my skinny body, my personality flaws. I’m tired of trying to be someone better, someone worthy. I just want to be me. I want someone I can be honest with, someone who’ll accept me as I am.”
Tears gathered in my eyes at the tortured longing in his voice. He was so innocent, so sweet, so sure that his true love was out there. It made me sad.
“The thing is, people are so shitty,” I said, my voice trembling. “No one loves. No one cares. No one is faithful. Everyone is cruel and fucking awful.”
The song changed to a rock anthem. My face ached with the effort not to cry, but some tears squeezed out anyway. Andrew scooted closer to me, until his head rested against my shoulder. His hair tickled my cheek but I didn’t move my head. I realized he was crying too. The music was rough and hypnotic, twanging guitars and words I couldn’t understand. Maybe the paint fumes were making both of us a little high. I stared at the black night through the windows as Andrew lay beside me, my partner in misery, my stalwart friend.
“I’m sorry I’m so down on love,” I said. “It’s just difficult for me. I could tell you things about my past...”
“What kind of things?”
“Nothing. Stupid things I want to forget. I’m sorry I made you cry.”
“I’m crying because you’re crying.” He wiped my eyes with the edge of his sleeve, a gesture that was so gentle and normal it made me start bawling again. “No one should be down on love, Chere. Our purpose in life is to love.”
Was it? Maybe that was why my heart felt so black and dead and decrepit, and so numb. I felt so numb I thought I might disappear completely, without touching anyone or anything. That was disappearance, pure and simple, the opposite of being alive. Which meant I was dead.
His hand touched mine and I gathered my courage, and closed my fingers around his. In the dim fluorescent light, with our shoulders touching, I decided to tell him everything.
“You want to know a secret about me? I used to be a prostitute,” I said. “A high-class escort. I used to see three or four clients a week.” I paused for him to freak out, but he didn’t. The lack of reaction gave me the fortitude to forge ahead. “And just before I got out of the business, there was this guy...”
Price
When I first met Chere, I was pissed. I’d told her pimp—excuse me, her agent—that I wanted a beautiful, natural blonde. Chere was beautiful, yes, but as far from a natural blonde as you could get. Her hair was fake on purpose, the kind of sex-kitten, Marilyn-Monroe blonde that broadcast “I’m a sex object.” Beneath her fake-blonde hair and Lanvin suit, she was pure guttersnipe, with old New Orleans features, dusky skin and freckles. Her body was strong, not elegant. She wasn’t what I wanted at all.
I almost sent her away, but there was so
mething about the tilt of her chin that compelled me. I’d bound her instead, with cheap hardware-store zip ties. I did everything bad to her that first session. I insulted her, I called her a bitch. I slapped her face and made her call me Sir. Worst of all, I didn’t let her see me or know my name. All these awful things were done to her by a nameless, faceless stranger who had complete control.
She was hysterical and fake that day, but something clicked for me by the end of our date, clicked as it had never clicked before. I wanted to fuck her so hard and so rough by the end that I probably could have fuck-killed her if I was that kind of guy. But I wasn’t. I didn’t harbor any psychopathic desires to maim or kill women. I only wanted to feel something honest, and there was nothing more honest than a woman going batshit crazy because of the shit you were doing to her. I throat-fucked her—hard—and I pussy-fucked her—hard—and she submitted to it with such delicious ambivalence. She didn’t want it, but she did.
I can’t explain my fetishes...why I need women to want it and not want it. I can’t pinpoint where my force-driven fantasies came from, or recall the moment sex and suffering crystallized, for me, as a necessary combination. I’ll only say this: I never met a woman who wanted it and didn’t want it with the same intensity as Chere Rouzier. The second time I slapped her, the hardest time I slapped her, it triggered a monumental orgasm for her.
I almost let her go, I thought as I watched her tremble through the climax. I almost let this one go.
I’d been rough with a lot of women through the years. I sought out self-identified masochists so as not to waste anyone’s time, and when I slapped them during sex, I got two responses. They either liked it too much, which I hated, or they pretended to like it, which I also hated. But Chere neither liked it nor pretended to like it. She hated it, and came anyway like a fucking madwoman.
Taunt Me (Rough Love Book 2) Page 2