by Kitsy Clare
She snorts. “Overdramatic is an extreme understatement if you’re describing Casper’s behavior today. Besides, why are you so eager to defend him? Defend me. I’m your friend, remember?”
“You are my friend. And I hate hearing he got so weird. I hate that you got canned. It would’ve been so fun to work with you there.” I sigh. “But look, Harper, it’s a highly paid internship. I need the money. I can’t afford to quit.” I resent her bossing me around, but I don’t say that. That would extend this into a three-hour argument about how I’m bossy, too, and not just bossy but supercritical and a neat freak to boot. I don’t want to go there.
“You don’t get it,” she mutters. “You’re being selfish.”
“I’m a lot of things but selfish I’m not.”
“Normally, no. Except in this case you’re not thinking of how I feel about being fired. It’s humiliating.”
I sigh. “I’m sure it was awful. But maybe you shouldn’t have gone into that room. Was it locked or something?”
“Uh, yah,” she admits. “I found the key on his desk.” She chuckles darkly. “He told me to do a thorough cleaning, for shit sakes.”
“Whoa! Harper, you stole his key and snooped?”
She says in faux innocence, “I thought he meant all of the rooms. How was I supposed to know?”
“I’d be upset if he asked me to clean. I’m no one’s maid. He’d better not ask me to clean, or else.”
“You just wait, Sienna. That’s all I can say.” Harper burns some serious rubber veering onto the FDR Highway, which rolls along the East River. I love these views, too, of all of the playing fields lit up and full of soccer players, even at 9:30 p.m.
“Slow down or we’ll both get crunched. I accepted a ride, not a death race.”
She slams her foot on the brakes for effect, but does slow down, to a bracing fifty miles per hour. “So, you’re going to keep working there?”
“I don’t know. Let me see how it goes. Maybe I can tame him. He was acting like a wild animal, climbing ceiling chains and dangling from them.”
“I know.” She nods like his veteran assistant. “He’s into pretending he’s Tarzan. Was he barefoot and wearing the ripped jeans without boxers?”
I nod, and it sends us both into hysterical laughter.
“Did he go on a rant about the wonders and horrors of sugar?”
I roll my eyes. “Totally, through the annals of sugar history.”
“How slaves lost their limbs? How people were boiled? Did he quote Voltaire’s Candide?” She snickers. “Something about a sugar worker losing his limb being the price of sugar in Europe?”
“How’d you guess?” I mean, it’s sad if that’s true, but Caz is quite the know-it-all. We launch into another giggle fit. This is much better than fighting or having Harper lay guilt trips on me. “He’s kind of hot, wouldn’t you say?” I venture.
She shrugs, noncommittally. “Yeah, yeah, he’s got pretty hair for a guy, and sexy shoulders. But his horrid personality cancels all of that out and more.” Her tone turns deadly serious. “Don’t go back there, Sienna, really.”
This has to end because the test of wills is making me weary. “I’ve got an idea. What if I make it my business to get inside that room and find out what the heck he’s hiding in there?”
“Noo-o, Sienna, I’d be scared for you.”
“All kidding aside, what do you think his big secret is?”
She thinks about this while she races past a guy driving a Subaru Outback. “You shouldn’t want to know. You’re right, I shouldn’t have gone in there, and you shouldn’t either. It’s almost like some stalker going through a star’s trash.”
I’m not a stalker, I’m an artist. And I blame my intense curiosity on Harper. She’s the one who whetted my appetite to poke around. “Give me a week or so. Get off my back for that long.” I level my gaze on her so she’ll feel its intensity. “I need to figure this out for myself, stick around a little longer. Don’t hate me for it.”
“Okay, okay. Hey, if you insist, the key’s on a red suede keychain. Just don’t get caught.”
“Awesome.” I give her a pat on the back. “Friend, what do you say to some shopping therapy? Some of the hot designers are open late.”
“Ooh, great idea, Sienna.” Her face lights up. I’m glad I can help her get happy after her crap day, especially since I helped make it crappy. Harper’s always up for shopping therapy. She doesn’t remember that I can’t often afford those Fifth Avenue palaces on my paltry pay. Harper doesn’t worry about such things on her budget. She didn’t really need the money from that internship. She works for a high-end designer part-time, plus she’s got Dave.
At least she worries about my welfare. I love my bestie even when we’re having issues, and she knows I love her, too.
Navigating down Fifth Avenue past buses, cabs, and bikers, she easily swerves into a parking spot. Everyone from out of town thinks driving in New York must be a nightmare, but there’s driving magic at night here. All of the restricted signs are over for the day and it’s a festive free-for-all.
An enchanted world with so many twinkling lights—on trees, storefronts, billboards.
Saks, Diesel, Juicy Couture, and Versace, here we come!
4 CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning I work on my computer art for a few hours. It always helps to clear my head and make me happy and grounded.
Happy, ha, Caz said that was overrated. I disagree big time.
I create an oblong shape with scallops and spikes that match perfectly on each side. Then I digitally airbrush in about ten layers in Photoshop, each one transparent enough to let the former layer shine through. The effect is that of a glimmering, vibrating magenta jewel out of a sci-fi tale. I render it floating in a cool, minty-colored background. It refreshes me to make up things that resemble parts of nature but are completely fantastic and otherworldly. It’s meditative, and I love its symmetry.
I’m better about my compulsion for order than I was last spring. My boyfriend, Erik, helped me with that before he left for Europe. Though it’s still simmering in there, like the layers I’ve built up in this artwork—hidden, yet vibrating just under the surface. It comes back at the worst times—when I’m lonely or freaked out, when I’m under great stress.
I feel it inching up, as the hour grows closer to my second day of the internship. I stash my art supplies in their exact spots and start to sort through my color-coded closet, fretting over what to wear.
I’m starting to get a cluster headache from the worry and my residual guilt over defying Harper’s warning. I’m not sure why I’m so determined to go back and visit the demented king in the haunted sugar castle other than the money. I was tossing and turning a good part of the night over why.
The answer is that there is no answer.
I place a pair of faded yellow corduroys that make my butt look good on the bed. I’ve had them since senior year in high school, so I suppose I won’t mind getting paint on them. It’s between those and a pair of black leggings. They’re tight, and too revealing, but I figure I can wear a long tunic over them. Trying them on, and studying the effect in the mirror, I decide that the leggings are out of style. I don’t want Caz thinking I have no fashion sense. Stuffing them in the trashcan, I vow to reorganize my closet soon.
I end up wearing the dusty-yellow cords, paired with a faded-beige lace top. They’re pretty together, and they render my skin rosy. I put on big gold hoop earrings, a candy-yellow beaded necklace, and my brown flats. Not too overdone, but attractive. God, I don’t want Caz thinking I’m dressing for him. I laugh at myself in the mirror, while I studiously create an updo that looks carefree and windblown.
Just before I leave, I get an itch to Google Casper Mason, find out some telling tidbits about him, maybe out his childhood, where he grew up.
After clicking into about ten sites, I come up with nothing, nada, zip. Very odd. To be sure, there are multiple sites trumpeting Caz’s outrageou
s installations, including a spun-sugar menagerie of hedgehogs and wolves and a gallery performance where his trusted manservant, Tommy Treelane, released spirals of multicolored sugar over an almost-naked, spread-eagled Caz. I only let myself drool over Caz’s pecs, abs, and the enticing mound of red sugar over his groin for a hot minute because I’m searching for other bold truths.
Layers of yellow sugar, then red, then blue. What does it all mean? The critics have theories: that sugar as life is multilayered, that we cloak ourselves with artificially colored sweetness, that it means nothing and Caz is simply having wicked fun at our expense. Sure, there’s truth in each theory. But my gut tells me the real truth is still hidden—perhaps under a blackened layer of fossilized sugar, not unlike the crackled shell that coats the walls of the Caz Castle.
The really striking thing is the lack of any history. No gossip about where Caz went to high school, no college hijinks, not one photo of his mom, dad, or boyhood dog. What? Did he materialize from thin air?
***
As yesterday, Tommy answers the front door and we go tripping down the crusty hallway. I feel less apt to take a flying face plant in my flats than I did in those spiky stilettos. From about twenty yards away, Casper Mason’s music blares—this time, electronica with a heavy thump-thump bass. I can’t lie; butterflies are lilting and swooping in my stomach. I almost feel like I’m going on a blind date. How ironic is that?
To distract myself from my imminent terror, I study Tommy’s outfit: a fuzzy black smock over blue leggings and some clunky suede geek shoes. His hair is gelled up, and he has on a smattering of smoky eye shadow. Fabuloso!
He pauses near Caz’s studio door. “How are you feeling today?” he asks. He must sense I’m feeling unnerved. His birdlike blue eyes observe me kindly.
“Good,” I lie, “feeling strong.” I flex my muscles in a cartoon-superhero stance.
When his face warms into that charming grin, I really do feel strong. I’m ready, knowing Tommy will be at his station down the hall, patiently waiting to help should Caz throw me another impossible curveball.
Tommy proceeds to open the studio door and music blasts out, gritty and futuristic. The butterflies in my stomach careen in crazy circles. Walking in, I see Caz halfway to the ceiling on the chains. He’s hanging upside down, this time affixing something to the rim of the cauldron. What the fuck?
As before, Tommy waits patiently for his master. In fact, we both wait about five minutes before Caz shimmies down the chain and leaps to the floor. He’s even sweatier than yesterday. It’s dripping off him and soaking through his tank top. Normally, this would gross me out. I’m not a fan of sweat drippings. I prefer men who have showered and are wearing crisp, fresh clothes, thank you very much. But, as yesterday, I find myself snuffling the air for a whiff of his man-scent. What’s with me? I’ve never been stirred to sniff the air like a bitch in heat.
I struggle to compose myself while Caz stalks toward us. Tommy breaks the tension by jogging over to a wall cabinet and fetching his master a towel. He lobs it to Caz, who catches it and dries off, all the while keeping his gaze focused on me. For my reaction? I refuse to give him one. Poker face firmly in place, I await his instructions.
“Better,” he says to me.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re dressed to work today. Better.”
Tommy says, “You have a massage at seven, and I ordered a case of the sparkling cranberry juice you like. Will there be anything else?”
“Yes, a bowl of fruit salad. Put it in the kitchen, on the table, and don’t forget the pineapple.” He turns to me. “You like fruit salad?”
“Um, sure.” That’s actually thoughtful—offering food and asking if I like it. Maybe he’s not a complete monster. And I guess he doesn’t drink. Health conscious guy-check.
Tommy turns on his heels and leaves. For a second, I have the same panicky urge as yesterday to run after him and escape, but I tamp it down.
“Were you good on the ropes in elementary school?” Caz asks me, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Not my greatest talent, but I usually got halfway up, why?”
“You’ll be climbing today.” He nods to the cauldron. Oh, no, not that!
“Um...what will I be doing up there?”
“Drilling pinholes,” he answers, like there’s nothing odd about drilling through a heavy metal pot while suspended from the ceiling on chains.
Why can’t we do the work on it while it’s on the ground? Wouldn’t that be more logical? But I don’t dare ask. I don’t want to suffer through Caz’s black glare again. Or sugar in my face.
“Okay, um, how do....I mean, how in the world do I get up there, and do you offer safety wires or anything?”
He stares at me, blank-faced, before breaking out in uproarious laughter. “What do you think this is, the circus?”
Certainly seems carnivalesque to me, freak.
“Follow me,” he instructs, and heads to the far wall, where he climbs a ladder then scurries across one of the wide corroded pipes to the chains holding up the vat.
I’m terrified of heights. And what if these ancient pipes give way under me? Plus, as attractive as Casper Mason is, I’m terrified of getting too close to him, sharing a pipe. If he cops a mood, he could easily shove me off with one arm. I inch slowly across, afraid to take a deep breath, and scrabble for the chains the moment I’m able. Holding on for dear life, I try not to look down. Must be a twenty-foot drop. He’s insane, and his work style is Medieval.
When I stop trembling, I look over at him. He’s balanced on the pipe, in a carefree, loose manner, as if it’s as easy as doing cartwheels on grass. A wicked grin is slowly spreading across his treacherously handsome face. In one hand—a big, hairy muscular hand, toughened with calluses—he’s gripping the drill.
I can’t help but imagine where those hands might have been: Digging in piles of sugar, hammering nails to erect this studio, stroking a pretty girl’s thigh, inching upward to her softer, private places.
What the hell? Do I want to be that girl? I can’t help imagining that the drill is his rock-hard member he’s inviting me to play with.
Stop it, Sienna! Your mind is disintegrating into a smutty, infatuated muddle.
“I’ll demonstrate,” Caz says. With that, he flicks the thing on and proceeds to drill a hole near the rim. A metallic smoke sours the air. He steps closer to me and holds out the drill. It’s irritating how intensely soulful his eyes look, and how he’s emitting a spicy, expensive aroma. For who, me? It’s hard to ignore his fine, fine body, so up in my face. Or the sexy array of tats, now discernable. Inked branches of a tree are flexing on one of his pecs, while a chain spirals down his opposite arm, starting at the shoulder and temporarily disappearing under the navy strap of his skimpy tank top, reappearing triumphantly on the other side of the fabric, and winding around his strong man-arm to his thick, hairy wrist. In the hollows of his throat, a panther’s head throbs to the rhythm of his pulse.
“Your turn,” he instructs. “Make ones parallel to mine, around the rim, and then another row about twelve inches below those.”
As if it’s as easy as sewing a hem.
He watches me shamble shakily toward the vat and steady the drill bit on its surface. What if I just yell, You do it! What are you thinking, having your female intern drill a heavy metal vat while suspended in the air with no safety harness? Want to get sued? But I don’t.
If this is another test, I’m determined to pass. And prove that a woman is just as capable as a guy in pulling off daring feats.
I aim and push the On button. It whirs in uneven circles, and it’s all I can do to prevent it from flying off into the air. By the time I get the drill through the thick metal, my arms are burning. And I’m sweating, an oily, nervous sheen across my forehead, drips from each armpit wetting my lace shirt. That’s all I need, fugly wet half-moons in my pits. Positioning the drill on the next spot, I flick On again. This time, I lose co
ntrol of the bit. The entire drill spirals out from under me and crashes onto the plank floor below. In the upset, I lose my footing and flail backwards.
Strong arms catch me and pull me in. Caz’s arms. He presses me to him and grasps me there, a beat longer than necessary to make sure I regain my balance. Our eyes meet and hold—my hazel to his rich browns. Caz’s expression moves like restless clouds—from transfixed, to curious, to sad. Then, again, I sense his virtual gate slam down. Done, closed, pissed off. He releases me, and I clutch one of the heavy chains. Sway unsteadily until I seize another with the other hand.
“Do you always test your interns like this?” I snap. My nice façade has broken to bits. This was far too scary.
“Always,” he answers, in a too-sure-of-himself-for-words tone.
“Guess I flunked.” I glare at him. Ready for him to send me packing.
“I like your spunk,” he says, shocking me into a grin.
“Oh, really? I should talk back to you more often.” I plow on haphazardly. “Is that what happened to my friend Harper? She wasn’t spunky enough? Was she too sweet and compliant?” I hear the barb in my tone, and it sounds good. For all he’s put me through in only two afternoons.
His stiff, scary horror-film mask is back on. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growls.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t know your friend. Ask her.”
I’ve had enough. Slowly as I dare, I turn and inch my way back along the pipe to the ladder.
“Where do you think you’re going, um, Sierra?”
“It’s Sienna.”
“Sienna.”
“I’m going back to the floor, and if you decide to treat me like a human being and stop testing me, I’ll do more work for you, of the kind you actually need done.”
“Is that so?” I hear the pad, pad of his footsteps. He’s following me.
“Yes, that’s so.” I shimmy along the last bit of pipe and scramble down the ladder. I can’t get down fast enough.
At that moment, Tommy emerges from the studio kitchen with a bowl of fruit salad and places it on the table in the adjoining room. He floats back into the kitchen without a word. My traitorous stomach growls. In my haste to get here, I didn’t eat enough breakfast.