by Maggie Ryan
"Who is it? What's her name?" she demanded. "I want you to tell me right now! No lies, Chandler, because if you lie to me, I'll know. Tell me who it is! Are you in love with her? What?"
"No one, baby, it's not what you think," he said.
"Oh really?" she screamed. "Do I look like some kind of an idiot? Look at you. You were enjoying yourself. Look!"
She shoved the phone right into his face. He closed his eyes to it, embarrassed. It was the first picture, the one she'd taken when he was still at full mast. Oh God. This wasn't going to be easy.
"And there's more! Look!" Her fingers scrolled furiously from picture to picture, each exhibiting close ups of his body. "So you can explain?" she said bitterly. "Well, I'd like to hear you try!"
"Who sent them? Who sent them to you?"
"Why does that matter? What difference would that make? Someone who evidently cares about me more than you do!"
Chandler snatched the phone from her hand but didn't recognize the number. "Damn it, Syd, tell me. Who sent it?"
Angered and upset, she left him with her phone and ran into their kitchen if for no other reason than to get away. He followed after her, needing to explain and wanting answers of his own. He knew the sender didn't matter, but still he needed to know. He didn't like the idea of her having secrets any more than she did and it angered him.
In the kitchen she was cornered. "Look, I meant to tell you about the sessions, I really did. I just never had got the chance to."
"Sessions?" she screamed. "Sessions? You mean, this happened more than once?"
She opened the fridge door and looked blankly inside. She didn't want anything in there—it was just part of her frustration.
"Yes, there were sessions. I was posing for an art class. That's all! I swear it on my mother's memory."
"Yeah right, and I've been sleeping with a giraffe!"
"It's the truth, dammit," he yelled. "And I can prove it. Where's my damned laptop? Come and see." He dragged her reluctant ass back to the main room of the apartment and pushed her forcefully down onto the sofa. "Now you just wait there while I power this thing up."
She sat obediently enough, though her arms were folded tight and her foot was tapping like a mad woman the entire time. As soon as he was on-line he navigated to Elizabeth's page on her dad's website and turned the laptop around so she could see the monitor.
"See, look!" he said, pointing at the screen.
She followed his finger, but was none the wiser. Confused she shook her head. "I don't understand."
"Look again. Take a close look, Sydney. That marble sculpture that sold for two-hundred-thousand dollars—that was me. See, I posed for it. It's how I got through classes last year without getting my old job back at the shoe store. Didn't you ever wonder where my money came from?"
"What? Really? No. I don't believe it. I just assumed you were working there again."
"Well, you were wrong. Like I said—it was nothing."
"But why didn't you say something?"
"I always meant to, but just never did. I guess after a while I just couldn't. Too much time had gone by."
Puzzled, she picked up her phone and stared alternately at the laptop and the phone monitor, no doubt comparing the images, making sure his story made sense.
"So do you believe me now?"
She put the phone down and her eyes searched his. The trust was returning; he could see she wanted to believe him. She nodded, submissively.
"And are you going to tell me who sent the pictures?"
She shook her braids sadly. "I'm sorry, Daddy," she said. "I really don't know. The number was withheld." She held the phone up so he could see this. "I would tell you if I could, I really would."
He wiped the smudged mascara from her face with his thumb. "I completely understand your anger," he said. "But you should have had a little faith in me. I love you, Syd, and would never do anything to hurt you, I swear it. You know that, don't you?"
"I know that now," she said, her lower lips pouting like a naughty child. "And I'm sorry I didn't trust you. Are you going to punish me now?"
"I'm thinking about it," he said. The truth was, if anyone deserved a good whipping it wasn't Sydney, and he knew it. But their games—he knew it would bring them back to each other. It was how they bonded—how they expressed their love—and they both needed to play together now. He set his jaw and assumed a lofty expression. "I can't decide what would be appropriate, given the circumstances."
She wiped away some more of her mascara, and having recovered a little, got up and sat on his knee. "I'm sure Daddy will think of something." Sydney smiled, her anger forgotten already.
He stared at her thoughtfully. "I'm sure I will, baby. I'm sure I will."
"I'm very sorry, Daddy. I should have trusted you. I'm a very naughty girl."
"Yes, yes you are," he said. "I think you should be spanked, don't you?"
"I think so if you do, Daddy."
"Over my knee then."
There was no hesitation this time. He smacked her hard, knowing exactly how she liked it."
"You will never not trust me again," he said, spanking her hard.
"No, Daddy."
"And when you find out who sent that message, you will tell me at once." Slap!
"Yes, Daddy."
Chandler continued to thrash her for a little while, and was really enjoying leaving his mark on her ass. She was going to bruise this time; he was sure of it. Good. She said the pain made her think about him whenever she sat down, even if he wasn't about—and he liked that idea.
After they made love, Chandler gave her permission to use the bathroom. Sydney rose; her head penitent as she slipped quietly away. He dropped onto the sofa; this was proving to be one hell of a day and it wasn't even lunch time yet. He picked up his laptop and checked out the sales price again. Elizabeth had been right. That had been one hell of profit; people just had way too much money to burn up in the city. Two-hundred-thousand dollars! That was one hell of a price tag. No wonder she'd been so happy to pay him so much.
And now his secret was out in the open, he thought maybe he could sit for her again. Surely his little baby wouldn't mind, not now that she knew everything. He was sure she'd understand about the money, and hell, now that she knew she was more than welcome to come join him while he sat for her.
He clicked on the image and saved the image to his desktop. It was an awesome piece of art—and his ego loved being the subject of it. In one season she had immortalized him. Isn't that what he had always wanted to do with his writing? And she had done it in just a few months, armed with a chisel and a hammer. Amazing.
Sydney walked back into the room, all cleaned up, her hair wet from the shower. She was braiding her hair, and he patted the side of the sofa, beckoning her to sit by him. He put the laptop aside.
"I have decided to sit for Elizabeth again next year. The money was incredible, and now that you know about her, I feel more comfortable about agreeing to another season. You can come and watch her work, if you wish. She said as much last time I saw her, and who knows, she might want to do a sculpture of you. She loves beautiful things."
"I don't think I'd want her to," said Sydney, all pouty again.
He gave her a stern look and she bit her lower lip. "Why not?"
"I'm not sure I'd be comfortable having strangers look at my naked body. You must do what you need to, but please don't ask me to, Daddy—I wouldn't like it."
"Very well." He wouldn't dream of forcing her. And a little bit of him was pleased with her answer. He wasn't sure he'd like all those men and women ogling her nakedness either. Her body was his special playground, and he didn't want to share it with anyone. He took her in his arms and held the close. She was his very special baby after all.
Chapter 8
Trouble at the Pump
Chandler looked down at the Beemer to the blinking light on the dash. Shit! He was out of gas. With the amount he had paid for the rental he thought they w
ould have thrown in at least a quarter of a tank, but no, the thing was practically running on fumes. Chandler pulled into the one gas station in town and began filling her up. He figured Sydney might be back at the library by now, and if she wasn't, he would stop by her house again and see if she was there. He was lost in a world of expectations when someone called his name.
"Chandler? Chandler is that you? Chandler Kane?"
He turned to see Harry Swift standing over at one of the other pumps, filling up his Chevy truck. Harry was his best buddy from high school, but they'd lost contact when he went off to college, and the last he'd heard was that Harry had started an apprenticeship at the tool and die works. From the looks of him, he was doing pretty well by it. Chandler was happy to see this, but was in no mood to play catch up now.
"Good God," his old fried cried as he skipped around the stationery cars to join him. "I can't believe it's you. You're looking great! I hardly recognized you in all this fancy get-up. And the BMW! Wow, is it yours?"
"No, it's a rental."
"Pity! It's a great car. So how are you doing? I haven't heard from you in, like, forever! Heard great things, though. They say you're in the big leagues now, roughing it with the rich and famous up in New York."
"Yes, I'm in New York now." He nodded. "The books are doing great and I have a pretty cool conversion in New York. I couldn't be happier."
"That's amazing," his old friend said. Harry spoke without a sneer or malice, and Chandler felt a little guilty about not staying in touch. Harry was a good soul, one of the best. He never thought badly of anyone. But then their distance was never intentional—and Harry had never been much of a correspondent. Chandler doubted Harry even had his own Email account.
"I heard you got married," Chandler said.
"That's right," said Harry, beaming. "And I have two beautiful daughters to show for it. Maisey and Grace. I couldn't be happier. You remember my wife, Judy? She was two years below us, but she was a knockout then, and still is now. She's over in the truck now, watching us, well, hoping to keep me out of mischief anyhow."
Chandler looked around him and saw the chubby little woman in the passenger seat of his truck. She had an open face with a ready smile, and she grinned on being noticed, rewarding him with a little wave.
"I'm very happy for you," he said, genuinely.
"So, what are you doing back in town? Are ya here for Miss Sydney? I'd bet my last dollar that you were. You two were always thick as thieves."
"Yes, in fact, I'm on my way to the library to see her now."
"Oh. Does she know you're coming or is it a surprise?"
"A surprise, unless someone has tipped her off already. I seem to keep missing her and bumping into everyone else."
Harry laughed. "Or maybe she's avoiding you. You let a lot of water flow under that bridge, my friend. A lot of water. And a beautiful girl like Sydney, hoo eee, well, she was never gonna sit on the singles’ fence too long, ya know what I mean?"
Chandler caught his breath. "Have you heard something? Is she seeing someone?"
A shadow crossed his old friend's face, like he'd just put his foot in something stinky. "Well, I heard rumors, Chandler. Don't know if there's any truth in them—might be nothing at all."
"Tell me."
Harry scratched his beard and looked over to his wife, as if somehow she could help him out of a sticky situation. "We could ask Judy. Reckon she heard more about what's going on around town than I do. She's in a church group, so she gets all the gossip, know what I mean?" He winked, as if this explained everything. "Come on, let's go and ask her."
Judy was beaming, like it was some special honor that they were walking over. Her eyes twinkled and she twisted her head to address the two kids strapped in the back. "Be quiet now, you two. We've got company."
Up close and leaning on the passenger window, he saw she had a box of Cheerios wedged between her legs, and there were little round hoops all over the truck where the family had been snacking on them. Her face was familiar but Chandler couldn't quite place her, no matter what Harry had said. He smiled at her like she was an old friend.
"Hey, Judy, how's it going?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine. How are you?"
"Good thanks."
Harry wrapped his fingers on the rim of the window. "Jude, I was just telling Chandler about Sydney. Wasn't there something about her shacking up with some older guy? Some painter or something? I don't recall the particulars but I thought you might remember it."
"Yes, yes, that's right. I heard he was twice her age, old enough to be her father or granddad or something. Sick I call it—having some old dude pawing you like that. He probably paints her in the buff." Judy shuddered.
"Yeah, both of them," chimed in Harry. "A nude painting a nude."
His wife nodded. "It takes all sorts in the end, I suppose, but it does nothing at all for me. Uggh. Nasty."
Chandler swallowed the painful lump in his throat and pretended this was nothing he hadn't expected. "How long ago did you hear this?" He actually hurt to say the words. He wondered if he looked as sick as he felt.
"A while back. Few months, maybe more, I dunno. Don't suppose there will be wedding bells for this one either—he's probably married. The old ones usually are. Like I said, takes all sorts."
"Waste of a good body," said Harry with a sigh. His wife shot him a warning glare.
Chandler needed to be anywhere but here, talking to these two, as nice as they were. His head was spinning as he ingested these new facts. Sydney with an older man! He hated to admit it, but it was hardly a surprise. Fortunately, the gas station was busy, and another buyer was parked behind his Beemer, waiting to get to the pump. It was as good an excuse as any to get away politely.
"Well, gotta go," Chandler said lightly, as if the news he had just heard hadn't punched a hole in his guts. "It was nice catching up with you, Harry. See you around, I guess."
"You too, Chandler. Hang in there. Don't leave it so long next time."
"Bye," said Judy, already turning to feed her kids another round of Cheerios. "Look after yourself."
Funny what difference a few minutes could make. When he had pulled into the gas station he knew where he was going but now, as he turned the key in the ignition, he had no clue what to do next. Sydney with an older man. His Sydney. With an older man. The same thought circled in his mind, blocking all others. It was like someone had grabbed his guts and was squeezing the hell out of them.
His imagination demons started to toss images of her dressed in her school uniform, being touched by some wrinkled, elderly digits. He saw that naughty mouth of hers locked in some abysmal embrace and he shuddered.
He tried to banish these thoughts as he drove down the road, but one by one, they just kept on coming, the horrible kind of tormenting thoughts that could drive a guy insane. He still drove to the library, but this time, instead of going directly inside, he sat in the parking lot, staring at the door. The truth was, his bravery was gone.
What had he been thinking? That she would be frozen in a bubble of time, sitting patiently, pining away, waiting for her hero to ride home and rescue her from her dismal life? How could he have been so naive? Sydney never needed rescuing or finding. She wasn't the one who was lost. She knew who she was, she knew what she wanted, and she had known from the beginning exactly where she wanted to be. No man in history had ever been as big as fool as Chandler was now. Because he had lost the one thing in the world that had ever really mattered to him. He had it all once, and he had let it go. He was a total idiot, and he knew it. He banged his head on the steering wheel in a burst of angry energy. The only question left was what was he going to do now? He looked dolefully up at the library doors, and considered his options. All he had to do was turn the wheel and leave, and he could be out of this godforsaken town in a heartbeat. He could start his life over again someplace else—and this time he would try not to mess it up. But perhaps he would. Some people were just eternally stupid.
> Or he could get out of the car, say hi to the woman he loved, and shake her hand one last time. He would hate to touch her, knowing he couldn't have her. How could he hide his disappointment from a woman who knew him so well? And would she laugh at him? Would she think, hey, loser, look at what you lost? If she did, she'd be right anyway. And what had he given her up for?
As he stared at the door he thought about the last time he'd seen her—the last time he had the right to call her his baby. Sydney was really coming into her own; a life-choice once confined to the bedroom was beginning to spill out into their public world. It was all in the silly little details; the bounce in her pigtails—the angles of her braids, the design of her dresses that always had a kind of school-girl look about them. And pink. She liked a helluva lot of pink. And she'd gotten a dog. A silly little yippee Shih Tzu she called Teddy. She took it with her wherever she went, smothering it with more affection than a damned baby. He didn't mind any of it, except maybe the dog, who growled at his ankles whenever he got close to him. He almost kicked him once. Almost. He was probably in there now, pissing all over the library floor and breaking a gazillion school rules.
Screw the dog. Sydney was all that mattered. Sydney. He still ached whenever he remembered her—remembered her body. She had just come out of the shower, the steam coming off her skin like vapors off hot lava.
"Come to Daddy," he shouted from the bed.
"Hold on," she shouted back. "Be there in a sec."
He pushed back the sheets playfully. "Daddy said come now!"
Maybe she hadn't heard him, the hairdryer was pretty loud, or maybe she was just damned disobedient. But then his iPhone began to vibrate. He had asked himself the same question at least a thousand times since that day. What if he hadn't answered it? What if he'd responded differently? What if, what if, what if?