by Chloe Cox
I had forgotten about Mr. Penrose and Lena down below, but the sudden silence of their voices reminds me that if I can hear them, they can hear us.
I’m actually grateful, for that. Because for the first time, I am a little afraid of Cedric.
“I needed to protect myself,” I whisper.
He’s taken aback. He turns away from the desk, almost as if he’s ashamed to be seen, and runs a hand through his normally neat hair. I watch him pace the room like an animal, clearly upset, not because I’ve scored points or something, but because what I said is patently true. I don’t think he’d considered that I might need to protect myself from him. It occurs to me that he might be a man who spends a lot of time and energy making sure no woman ever has reason to feel endangered around him, and I’ve just told him I needed to protect myself.
He just never thought I’d have to protect myself from falling in love with him.
It’s ungallant of me, I know, but this is not a time for gallantry, and so I press my advantage. I know I have the upper hand now, and I use it. I get up and walk around so he has to face me, trapping him between me and the desk, blocking his exit.
“You think I want to be some kind of pawn?” I ask, keeping my voice level. “Some kind of way for you to work out your issues with your dead wife? Seriously?”
He looks as if he wants to speak, but no words come. I take another step towards him.
“I have a right to know if the man I’m falling in love with can even remember my name, Cedric.”
He backs away, shaking his head. I step closer.
“What happened with Julia. . .” He looks at me pleadingly. “I can’t risk it.”
I am so close to him now, close enough to touch him, close enough to kiss him.
“Risk what?” I whisper.
But his mouth sets in a hard line and he shakes his head.
“Risk what?” More of a demand, this time.
“Don’t push me, Claire.”
His voice has gotten hard, too, and I’m back to being angry. Push him? What the hell has he been doing to me this entire time? He’s pushed me to my utmost limits, and then asked me to define new ones. Why can’t he tell me what he did to his wife?
“I’ll push you as much as I want. I’ve earned it,” I say, and push my accusing finger into his chest.
“Claire. . .”
“What are you so afraid of, Cedric?”
I poke him in the chest this time. “I thought you knew how to be fearless?”
Another little poke. His eyes are getting darker, and I realize I want to see what happens when he gets angry. I want to see what he’s struggling to hide.
“I thought only trapped, sad little cowards ran from their fears, Cedric. Remember? Remember that appointment?”
One last poke to the chest.
He growls, and before I even register the movement, he grabs my finger and twists my hand down and around my back, crushing my body to his. Every inch of me comes alive where it touches him. I breathe hard into him, heaving my breasts into his chest, enjoying the pressure. My pulse roars in my pussy. I want to see whatever beast he’s been trying to hide from me. I want him all.
“How can you go after what you want,” I throw his own words back at him, “if you’re afraid to admit what that is?”
I think he’s going to kiss me, but he just hovers over my mouth. He shakes slightly with the effort of self-control, but he doesn’t let me go. I try one final gambit.
“Are you a coward, Cedric?” I whisper softly.
“Shut up,” he sneers, and crushes my lips to his.
My arm twists as I try to arch up to him, and I whimper a bit in pain. He takes no notice, kissing me hard and deep, still pinning my hand to the small of my back. His other hand threads through my hair, then down my neck, and under my neckline, where he finds my hot, full breast, nipple already hard for him. He palms it, then viciously tweaks my nipple.
I want this. I want all of him, even the darkest parts. But I am also really, truly scared.
I pull my head back slightly, my lips still parted from where he’d forced them open. His hand kneads my breast, and he has no interest in letting me go.
“Yes,” I say uncertainly, to the universe, more than to him. Faith doesn’t matter unless it’s tested, I tell myself. Courage means nothing without fear.
He spins me around so fast I almost lose my balance. I would fall if he weren’t in complete control of my body, his hands and arms manipulating my weight as if I weighed nothing at all. He forces me forward, toward the desk. Now it’s my turn to plant my hands on its aged wooden surface.
There is a beat, long enough for me to hear the voices of Mr. Penrose and Lena float up from the first floor and remind me that they can hear everything. That we are not alone. I look briefly over my shoulder at Cedric, but he is a vision of grim determination. He turns my head further and curls his neck around to kiss me again, then claps his hand between my legs from behind. I jolt from the shock, but he doesn’t let me go as I squirm in his grasp. I struggle with fear and lust, with uncertainty and love. I want him to take me like an animal, as his hand finds my breast again, pulling my dress aside to expose it to the cool air. I want him to claim me in some fucked up, backwards, chauvinistic way; I want him to roar over me, to own me, to dominate me. I want him to want those things, and now, for the first time, I know that he really does. This isn’t the cool, composed, controlled domination of our Doctor’s appointments; this is wild, feral, and fierce.
And I am afraid. I moan, and I push my ass into his groin, and I want to feel him inside me, and I am terrified of all of it.
I am afraid of what he did to his wife, because he is afraid of what he did to his wife.
The thought rises to the surface of my mind, pushed there by the intensity of my desire, by the desperation of it, by the heat of his hand working its way under my dress. I have a choice. It’s a choice between unknown danger, and knowingly losing Cedric.
Fuck that. I want him. I really do want all of him.
“Fuck me,” I beg him, my voice hoarse. “Please. Fuck me.”
Savagely he bites my shoulder, and his one hand begins to push me down, bending me over the desk, while his fingers finally, finally, finally push inside me, sliding in easily now that I am so very wet for him. I moan, and abandon all thought. I’m only grateful that I am going to have him again.
Until there is a knock on the open door.
The kind of perfunctory knock that is a polite way of intruding. It’s followed by the sound of a man clearing his throat.
There’s this incredible moment when everything stops, and I briefly think Cedric will just continue on, that this fever is strong enough to override all social considerations, that he’s about to send whomever it is fleeing for his life before fucking me over this desk. It is a distinct possibility, hanging in the air of that one, still moment.
But then Cedric’s fingers slide back out of me, his body guarding the sight of mine from the open door. I don’t even want to know who is there, except so that I can kill him later for interrupting. I feel Cedric turn around as I try to discreetly pop my breast back into my dress, and overall not look like I was just about to be bent over and fucked.
“Gerald, what is it?”
I spin around on my heel. Him? Seriously? What the hell is he doing here? Gerald stands there in the doorway, official looking papers and such in hand, still all scruffy blond and dressed like a casual Abercrombie model who’s about to go sailing or something, and returns my look of pure hatred with. . . disapproval? Suspicion?
Suddenly it feels like there’s more going on here than I’m aware of. Cedric still stands between us protectively.
“We have to get this meeting underway if there’s any hope of. . .” Gerald trails off, and looks at me. He seems grave and sad, not like the boyish charmer who tried to get in my pants not too long ago. “That is, if you still want to pursue this, Cedric?”
And Gerald’s gaz
e holds mine, just in case I didn’t know that was a loaded question.
Cedric looks back to me, and there is another long, empty moment. He is calm, cool, and collected once more, no trace of the raw, feral passion he let me see just minutes before. Nothing. Maybe I’m over-sensitive, but I feel the distance suddenly grow large between us. I don’t know what’s going on, but it makes me anxious and sad. I search his blue eyes for some sign, for any sign of recognition or acknowledgement, but he is impassive. Instead he makes a curiously formal little half bow in my direction.
“Please excuse me, Claire, I have something to attend to. Gerald will show you out in my place.”
I can only stare at him in astonishment. What the hell is happening here?
“Please forgive me,” he murmurs, and with that he turns and strides out of the room, grabbing the papers that Gerald holds out to him on his way out the door. He doesn’t look back.
Gerald at least has the courtesy to stare at the floor while I try to scrape some dignity together.
“What the hell was that?” I finally sputter.
“He had a prior appointment,” Gerald says to the carpet.
An appointment? Surely he’s kidding? Surely that is just a poor choice of words, and not that Cedric is. . . seeing anyone else? Still? But Gerald only continues to stare at the floor, apparently very unwilling to look me in the eye.
I don’t like that at all.
I don’t like any of this.
“Gerald?”
“Yes, Claire.”
“You don’t want me in his life, do you?”
This time Gerald looks up, no longer embarrassed, with a very serious look on his face. He looks at me for a long time before speaking. I get the impression that he’s weighing his words carefully.
“I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” he finally says, his grey eyes turned down at the edges, his eyebrows furrowed together. He almost looks sorry for me as he outstretches his arm, reminding me of the open door. That’s right: I’m being shown out.
I am, to put it mildly, a jumble of emotions as Gerald and I make our way down the stairs. I go slowly, at a stately pace, as though I’m holding my head up proudly, but really I’m just stalling for time. Thankfully, Cedric, Mr. Penrose, and the wretched Lena have gone elsewhere; there’s no one to see me get kicked out but Gerald, who’s doing the kicking.
I bridle at that, honestly. Gerald?
But I have to keep my wits about me. I’ve got literally thirty seconds to come up with a plan. I can’t afford to think too much about what Cedric’s other appointment means, or what happened to his wife, or what happened – or nearly happened – over that old desk, or what Gerald meant when he said he didn’t want anyone to get hurt. I have to come up with a plan.
I don’t quite manage that by the time we get to the front door, even though I deliberately wait for Gerald to open it for me. I mean, I’m not actually a secret agent or anything. So I do the next best thing. When Gerald gives me a sad, concerned look, I give him an understanding little smile, reach up, and give him a peck on the cheek, just to let him know there are no hard feelings.
“I don’t want anyone to get hurt, either,” I say.
And then I steal his wallet.
Ok, admittedly, stealing Gerald’s wallet – Distracting him with a kiss on the cheek! And then picking his pocket! – is kind of awesome. Like, it’s pretty exciting. I probably look calm and composed and sexy, given my outfit of choice, as I walk down Cedric’s sun-dappled street, but I am bouncing off the walls inside. And it is a little odd, given how much time I just devoted to reassuring Cedric that I’m not, in fact, crazy, because stealing a wallet is an objectively crazy thing to do.
But holy crap is it fun.
And it’s also the only thing I could think of on the spur of the moment. I needed more information, I needed another window into Cedric’s life, and literally the only thing I have to go on is his friend Gerald, whom I know nothing about.
Well, whom I knew nothing about. I’m about to find out a whole bunch. Now, going through his wallet, I can see where he lives, and I can see where he works – his wallet is chock full of business cards.
And Gerald is a psychiatrist.
I almost drop everything when I see that. Just, completely stunned, right there. I can’t quite put my finger on exactly what it is, but something about that is incredibly funny to me. Gerald is the actual doctor, of the two of them? What’s Gerald’s professional opinion of all this?
Which is when I realize that Gerald’s final warning about getting hurt might reflect a more professional assessment than I’d first thought. I think of Cedric’s unexpected ferocity, bordering on brutality, and a brief chill dampens my excitement, and as the usual adrenaline rush of sexy times with Cedric begins to recede, it’s replaced by a gentle foreboding. This is possibly something that deserves more thought.
And boy, do I think about it. I think about it as I walk out into the street to hail a cab; I think about it as I ignore the roving eyes of the cab driver in the rearview mirror. I wonder about how Julia had been hurt, and who had hurt her, as I watch the city streets change from the broad, beautiful avenues of Cedric’s neighborhood to the small, littered streets that surround my parents’ modest house. I think about what a man could do to drive a woman to suicide, if such a thing even exists, and if Cedric, my Cedric, could possibly be that man.
I worry over what I’ve gotten myself into as I aimlessly wander about my parents’ house, unembarrassed by my outfit, and ignoring their uncomprehending stares. And as we finally sit down to dinner, I realize I’m worrying so much because I am, for better or worse, completely sunk. That man has a hold of me, and there’s nothing I can do but see it through.
Which means I need to know more. I need to know what happened to his wife, if I’m to know what might happen to us.
And I know just the man to explain it to me. Gerald has no idea what he’s in for, I think, and I smile and decisively slice off a piece of roast. It’s at this point that I finally notice my family, my parents trying to hide their curiosity at my outfit and demeanor, my brother openly staring.
“What?” I ask innocently.
And then the phone rings.
I’d been worrying so much about Cedric that I’d forgotten to worry about my application to art school. Small blessings, right? Well, I’m right back to worrying now.
The voice on the other end of the phone is imperious, and male, and vaguely familiar. He says he’s calling from the office of Admissions.
“Ms. Donner, you are aware that the application deadline passed some weeks ago?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you saw fit to apply anyway?”
I sigh. Exactly how do you explain that you met this mysterious man who administered a strict treatment regimen of fucking and personal exploration, and as a result you’ve become much more bold and assertive with the universe at large? You don’t, because that would sound insane.
“Yes, I did. It’s a good application.”
There is a slight pause. You know when you think you can hear someone smile over the phone, even though you know that’s impossible? I get that feeling now.
“Yes, it is, Ms. Donner. I’ve been reviewing it. We’re quite impressed with your ability. Your technique is very good.”
I do a little fist pump into the air.
“We do hope to see more personal expression during the interview. Please feel free to bring any other materials that you’d like us to see.”
My foot taps rapidly on the floor as I write down the interview details, like my body just cannot possibly contain the excitement with any kind of decorum, and that energy has to go somewhere if I want to avoid becoming a blubbering idiot. An interview! Just sending in an application had been a Hail Mary, more about proving to myself that I was worth it than anything else. I’d expected to reapply later, to get a job, just get on with the business of becoming the person I wanted to be. But a freaking interview!
/> I tear back up to my room and drag out every good piece I’ve ever done from deep within my closet, the Dean’s words about personal expression echoing in my mind. I lay the best paintings out on my bed, and a nagging fear begins to wear away at the edges of my mind. My work doesn’t really stand out. The technique is excellent; it always has been, I was always talented, and disciplined, in my way. But the Dean’s comment about personal expression begins to seem important. My best work shouldn’t blend into a drab bedspread, should it?
I look around the room I’ve lived in my entire life. In the same way I never cared to put much thought and effort into my personal appearance, I never cared to make this room my own. There’s nothing to indicate what sort of person lives here. The colors themselves are bland, greys and beige and even some taupe, as though I were striving to be the absolute best at never offending anyone, ever. It’s like the person who lives here has put all her effort into hiding herself.
I start to paw through my paintings, looking for any signs of life. How could I not have noticed this before? My work, all of my work, it tells the truth about the person who created it: boring, repressed, so afraid to let herself feel that she has nothing to say, no outlook on life. It is a crushing truth.
About the only thing that makes it bearable is the knowledge that I am no longer this person, if I ever truly was like this. I am now myself, in the world. I have things to say. I have an outlook on life. I’m not afraid to feel.
My work just doesn’t show it.
So now I have two problems. I need to find out who Cedric really is, and I need to show the world who I really am.
I have no idea what I’m going to do about the latter, but I know just the man to help with the former.
Gerald’s office is in the ground floor of what I suspect is his own fancy townhouse. Another of the manor-born – I feel like I’m moving up in the world, and am not entirely prepared for it, just like I’m not entirely prepared for this meeting. That’s one thing Cedric and Gerald seem to have in common, besides an attraction to me and being born into wealth: they are both very used to getting what they want. I have no idea how Gerald will react.