Being Me

Six

Watching the elevator doors close on Chris leaves me hollow inside. I’m alone in his apartment and the happiness of the last few minutes has waned with the sensation of being lost. I know that distance does not have to create separation between us but our newfound closeness is fragile.

For several seconds I face those steel doors, willing them to open again, but they do not, and with good reason. Chris has a flight to catch and a good reason to leave. I on the other hand have several hours until I have to be at work and way too much time to think. I tell myself to sleep, since I’ve done little of it, but I know that isn’t going to happen. There is simply too much weighing on my mind. Besides, I need to unpack and shower.

I quickly head to the bedroom and find my nearly dead phone and dig the charger out of my suitcase. Once I’ve plugged it in and set it on the nightstand by the unmade bed, I glance at the closet. I’ve never actually shared a closet with a man before and I fight a wave of discomfort. I fight off the feeling. I am crazy about Chris. I am thrilled with the evolution of our relationship. So why am I fighting a sensation not so unlike what I felt in the storage unit, a sort of claustrophobia?

“This is ridiculous,” I scold myself, then zip my case back up and snatch up the handle. “You want this man. You want to be close to him.” I roll it to the closet and flip on the light and my eyes go wide at what I find. The closet is amazing, a girl’s dream, the size of a small bedroom with racks for clothes that line each of the three sides that don’t have a door, only two of which are being used for Chris’s clothes.

Once I’ve settled the case on the floor, I squat down and unzip it. My eyes catch on the safe embedded on the right wall and I find the door open. Chris hasn’t given me the combination yet and it’s unnerving to lock Rebecca’s things away without a way to get back inside.

My teeth scrape my bottom lip and I stare down at my open case, at the small keepsake box and the journals lying on top of my things. I made a promise to Chris to lock the journals up. I gather the three journals and the box and carry them to the safe, and shove them inside, but I do not lock the door. The fourth journal is by the bed somewhere, where I’ve left it the night before, and I push to my feet and head to the other room to find it. I spot it on the floor by the bed and reach down to grab it but my hand slips and it falls open. I grab it and sit on the bed, staring at the open page. I know this entry. My knowledge of the contents makes the urge to read almost unbearable. I draw a breath and promise myself this is the last time I’ll touch any of the journals before Chris returns. I’ll call him before he’s in the air, get the combination to the safe, and lock them away. Air trickles from my lips and my gaze drops to the book.

I woke this morning to the dull ache of my raw backside, proof of his punishment. I did not wear panties when I dressed for work. I cannot bear the touch of anything on my skin. The dull ache eased as the day went on but the memory of my punishment did not.

I did, however, have several large sales today and my evening ended with a private showing of a famous artist’s collection. My clients were thrilled to meet the actual artist and I understand why. He has a gentle strength about him that carries through to his brush. He is passion personified and I wonder what it would be like to have a man like that feel passionate about me. I wonder what it would feel like to wake up my passion for life again, instead of just wondering what the new game will be. The games are no longer fun. They are not the escape they once were. He is not the Master he once was. I feel as if I am spiraling into darkness and I hunger for the kind of passion this artist has for life again. I hunger for more . . . but isn’t that what brought me to the gallery in the first place? A hunger for more? Maybe it’s the “more” that is the danger . . . because more just never seems to be enough.

I slam the journal shut and my mind is on one thing. The artist Rebecca has written about. It’s not Chris, I tell myself. Chris would never invite strangers into his home and studio for a showing. It has to be Ricco Alvarez, who is meeting with me about some private showings; he apparently used to do them with Rebecca. So why am I still thinking of Chris? It’s insane. “Inherently private” is how he described himself. And even if Rebecca was talking about Chris, there is nothing in this entry, or any other, that suggests Rebecca’s lover had been an artist. My gut tightens and I shove to my feet and rush back to the closet. I drop down on the floor in front of the safe, before setting the journal I’m still holding inside. I pull out the velvet box and lift the lid and stare down at the paintbrush and picture of Rebecca that is torn in two so that I can’t see who was in the photo with her.

“It’s not Chris,” I whisper. “It’s not.”

My cell phone begins to ring and I shove the lid down and stick the box back inside the safe. I give the journal a glare and shove it inside the safe as well, and then I shut the safe and twirl the combination dial into place. I’m making myself crazy and I have to stop.

Afraid I’m going to miss my call, I push to my feet and run toward the bedroom, certain it’s Chris, and reach it just as it stops ringing. A glance at the caller ID tells me it was Chris. I’m about to punch REDIAL when it rings again.

“Chris,” I answer urgently, sitting on the edge of the bed, hoping to hear something in this call to erase the journal entry and how it’s made me feel.

“If this was any other trip for any other reason, I wouldn’t be leaving.”

“I know.” As insecure as I can be, in this moment, I feel the connection between myself and this man. “I also know that what you’re doing at the hospital is important. Where are you now?”

“We just started to cross the bridge. I had to push my flight back an hour but I should still make all my scheduled events.”

“I knew you were pushing it to make the flight.” Guilt over the journal entry twists inside me and I can’t hold it in. “I’m weak, Chris,” I blurt out. “I read another journal entry after you left, but I’m done now. No more. I locked all four of the journals in the safe and I don’t want the combination. Just tell me when you get back.”

He’s silent for several seconds, which feel like an eternity. “Do I want to know what you read and what it’s making you think about us or me?”

“No,” I say firmly, trying to convince him, and maybe myself, too. “What matters is they’re locked up now.” My grip tightens around the phone. “I promised you I wouldn’t read anything else until you got back, and I did. I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel my word means nothing.”

“You told me when you didn’t have to,” he says softly. “That matters, Sara.”

“You matter. You coming back to see me last night and worrying about me and so many other things, Chris. I’m not sure I really told you how much it all means but it does. It really does.”

“If you’re trying to make me want to turn the cab around and come back, it’s working.” His voice softens. “Saturday is going to take forever to get here.”

“Yes,” I agree. “Forever.”

“More so because I’m worried about you. I talked to Jacob before I left. He’s going to give you his cell phone number and if you need anything you call him. He’ll even take you to and from work if you want, though I know you well enough to know you aren’t going to agree to that.”

“No, but after what happened at the storage unit, I’m not complaining about having someone to call if I need to.” Had Chris not shown up last night, I’d have had no one to lean on, and it wasn’t a good feeling. “Thank you, Chris.”

“Thank me by staying safe and make sure you stop and talk to Jacob before you leave. If he’s not around have the front desk call for him.”

“Yes, okay. I will.”

“I’ll call you once I get settled in L.A. to check on you.” His voice lowers, turns soft and intimate. “Bye, baby.”

“Bye, Chris,” I whisper, and end the call, falling back on the mattress. I stare at the ceiling, my emotions all over the place. I really don’t know what to do with them or myself. I grab my phone, set the alarm for half an hour from now, and snuggle into a pillow, smiling as my nostrils flare approvingly with the heady male scent of the man making me absolutely crazy. “Crazy good,” I whisper.

“Coffee’s ready.”

My head snaps up from the pad of paper where I’ve been jotting information about Ella’s new husband, David, including his work number, and find Ralph, the gallery accountant and ever the comedian, poking his head in the door. Considering “Ralph” is Asian, I can’t help but wonder if his parents have the same infectious sense of humor I adore about Ralph. “Thank you,” I say, eager to pick Ralph’s brain about Rebecca and her relationship with Alvarez before my visit with him the next evening.

“I suggest you fill your mug before ‘Bossman’ drinks it all,” Ralph whispers conspiratorially, using one of his random, ever-changing nicknames for Mark. “He looks like he had a long night.” He tips back an imaginary glass and makes a comical face. “A bit too much wine for the Wine Master, I do think.”

I wave off this notion and glance at the clock, remotely registering that it’s almost nine and David’s office should be opening any minute. “Mark’s way too in control to let that happen.”

Ralph snorts. “You haven’t seen him today.”

He grimaces and disappears around the corner and my brows dip. Mark looking anything but perfect is hard to fathom, and since Mark seems to have quite the impact on my future, I’m curious about this development.

I push to my feet in pursuit of Ralph while he’s in willing informant mood, and find him sitting behind his desk in the office next door to mine. “I scored a meeting with Ricco Alvarez tomorrow,” I say, claiming the chair in front of his desk, not wanting to be obvious about my interest in Mark.

He arches a regal brow. “Did you now? Does Bossman know yet?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m sure he won’t be overly surprised. Alvarez has a thing for pretty women who tell him he paints like a Mexican god. And since you ooh and aah over his work, I assume you did. Stick to that strategy and you should do well with him.”

“A Mexican god?” I laugh.

He shrugs. “I call it like I see it. His ego is only exceeded by ‘the one’ who writes our checks.”

“I recall Amanda saying she thought Alvarez was worse.”

He shoved his glasses up his nose. “I guess that’s a matter of opinion. Actually, Amanda is right. Bossman rules with an iron fist but he does take care of his employees. And he’d never curse us for a mistake big or small. Of course, he’d flatten you with a look, and successfully. Alvarez once cursed me out over a one-dollar error in his payout.”

“Actually cursed?”

“Profusely.”

“Unbelievable,” I say, and in my mind, I’m replaying the journal and how Rebecca had said the artist she wrote about had a gentle strength about him. Suddenly, this doesn’t remind me of Ricco Alvarez at all. It reminds me of Chris. I shake off the ridiculous notion, trying to focus on what Ralph is saying.

“The only person with love for Alvarez—aside from admiration for his work, that is—is gone. Rebecca had a soft spot for him, and he for her, and for whatever reason when she left, he pulled his work from the gallery.”

“But he did the charity event?”

“Set up by Rebecca before she left.”

“Right. I remember Amanda saying that, too, now.” My brows furrow. “You have no clue at all why Alvarez pulled his work?”

“The man went off over one dollar, Sara. The possibilities are innumerable.”

“And he was working with Mark before Rebecca arrived?” I ask, confirming what I think I understand.

“For years.”

I wonder if Alvarez could be the man she’d been dating, but of course, that didn’t add up, since he was in town and she wasn’t. But maybe at some point they had? “Were she and Alvarez dating?”

“I don’t think so. She never talked about any man that I know of, and I don’t know how she’d have had time for one. She had two jobs when she started here—”

“Two?”

“Waitress at night.”

My belly tightens. “To pay the bills.” Rebecca had done what I hadn’t dared until she’d inadvertently led me here. She gambled that she could find a way to turn the dream into an income.

“Exactly,” Ralph confirms. “She never slept, and took naps at lunch in a chair in one of the back offices. Bossman didn’t like the conflict, though, and she’d done well enough that somehow she negotiated it into commissions.”

“Somehow? You were surprised?”

“Aren’t you? She was young and inexperienced, barely a year out of college.”

“I thought she was a few years older.”

He shakes his head. “Nope, so you can see that to snag what many a professional in this business wants and doesn’t get was a big deal. But I give her credit. She didn’t get bigheaded or take it for granted. She worked like a dog, through her lunches and late into the evenings. She needed her vacation, though this has become a bit extreme. Hard to believe she’s returning. Maybe this rich guy convinced her she needed a sugar daddy.”

“Did you meet him?”

“Never even heard of him until she was gone. I told you, she didn’t talk about the men in her life.”

But Ava had heard of this man and even met him, hadn’t she? Rebecca must have kept her new man away from the gallery, and Mark, but she was evidentially closer to Ava than I realized.

My brain hurts every time I try to unravel the mystery that is Rebecca, and Mark, too, for that matter. I glance at the clock and see that it’s already after nine. It would soothe me in all kinds of ways to reach David’s office, hear Ella is doing great on her honeymoon, and get one thing off my mind.

“I’m going after that coffee,” I announce, standing up, intending to get my caffeine fix on my way to make the call.

“Refill my cup, chica,” Ralph says, sliding his mug toward me. It reads “Numbers don’t count but I do.”

“Chica?” I query with an arched brow.

“I speak the language of many and the words of none.”

“You can say that again,” I laugh as I head for the kitchen, waving at Amanda, who has settled behind the front desk and is looking her adorable Barbie doll self in a pink dress and matching hair clip. I think of Chris’s claim that Mark is drawn to those who don’t naturally fit into his world. Mark’s choice to hire Amanda, a college student eager to please and without real life experience, seems to fit this assessment well. But why hire me? I’m no Amanda. I cannot help but wonder if my asking questions about Rebecca wasn’t the reason. He wanted me to be close so he could control what I discovered, or know what I was asking, or even who I was asking it of. Or maybe, I silently scold myself, you just impressed him with your knowledge of art and he needed a new employee. I do know art and I do belong in this world. Maybe not the Lion’s Den, or that club Mark owns, but the gallery, and the art industry, yes. I have to believe that if I’m truly going to resign my job as a schoolteacher and embrace my intended career path.

I’m busy talking myself out of a fallback into the haze of self-doubt when I walk into the small kitchen and freeze. Blood roars in my ears at the sight of Mark. He is standing with his back to me, his broad shoulders stretching the gray of his suit jacket just so. It’s the first time I’ve seen him, beyond a quick few seconds in passing the day before, since I visited his club, and I am suddenly a nervous wreck. I start to back out of the room.

“Not so fast, Ms. McMillan.”

Damn. Damn. Damn. “How did you know it was me?” I ask.

He turns, and my breath lodges in my throat with the impact of both his male beauty and steely gray eyes. Power rushes off him and he consumes the room, and me, but I’ve noted he has this impact on everyone, and I believe no one, male or female, is immune to his presence.

“I can smell your perfume,” he informs me. “And it’s not your normal scent.”

I feel a jolt of surprise at his unexpected observation. Mark knows my normal scent? That he’s this aware of me takes me off guard, but not as much as the glint in his bloodshot eyes. It has me wondering if he has actually identified the musky scent as masculine, thus assuming I smell like Chris. I decide to do what I’ve been doing a lot of lately—actually most of my life, if I’m honest with myself. I deflect. “You don’t look so good, Bossman.” I can’t seem to bring myself to call him Mr. Compton.

“Thank you, Ms. McMillan,” he says dryly. “Compliments will get you everywhere.”

It’s impossible to contain a smile at the reference to a comment I’d once made to him. “Good to know something works with you.”

His lips twist wryly. “You make it sound as if I’m impossible to please.”

I set Ralph’s coffee mug on the small table in the center of the room. “You do come across as a bit . . . challenging.”

His lips twitch. “I can think of worse things to be called.”

“Like rich and arrogant?” I tease, because I’d called him those things a few days earlier.

“I told you, I am—”

“Rich and arrogant,” I finish for him. “Believe me, I know.” I’m remarkably comfortable in this little exchange and I feel daring enough to question him. “You really don’t look like yourself. Are you sick?”

“Sometimes morning simply comes a little too early,” he says dryly, before turning away from me to fill his coffee cup, clearly not willing to supply more details.

My brow furrows. I’m certain he’s turned away from me to avoid me seeing his expression, and I don’t miss the subtle but evident discomfort in him that I’ve never seen before. I have an irrational need to pull down whatever wall he’s just erected and I joke, “Especially after the nights I stayed up studying wine, opera, and classical music so that my boss will believe I can interact with the clientele of the elite auction house his family owns.”

He turns and leans on the counter, sipping his coffee. Any sign of discomfort is gone, and his eyes blaze with power. “I’m simply looking out for your best interests.”

A sense of unease overcomes me and I know our easy conversation is over. We’re heading into quicksand territory and I already feel myself sinking. “And yours,” I point out.

He inclines his head. “Your interests are mine. We’ve had this conversation.”

He’s referring to our talk two nights before, when he’d showed me a video of Chris kissing me in the gallery and convinced me that Chris had used it to stake his claim on me. I’d felt like a token in a game that night. The same night Chris had taken me to the club. Mark’s club. A sudden rush of claustrophobia overtakes me and I reach for the coffee mug and step toward the coffeepot. Somehow, I catch my heel on what seems to be empty air and still I manage to trip. Mark reaches forward and catches my arm. The touch makes me gasp and my eyes shoot to his keen, silvery stare, more primal than concerned, and I feel as if the air has been sucked out of my lungs. I want to pull away but my hands are full.

“You okay, Ms. McMillan?” he asks, his voice etched with a deep, suggestive quality that burns through me with warning. I have the distinct impression that how I handle this moment in time will define our relationship, and perhaps the future of a job I’ve decided I want to keep.

“I do high heels better post-caffeine,” I reply.

His lips twitch and he surprises me by offering me a rare smile. “You are quite witty, aren’t you?”

His hand slips away from my arm and I remember all too well Rebecca talking about Mark’s games. I wonder if this shift in moods, which feels far more menacing than Chris’s, aren’t a part of how he plays with people. I set the mug down and reach for the pot.

“We should talk before you fill that,” Mark comments, and my hand stills mid-action.

I squeeze my eyes shut a moment and steel myself for what I know is coming, before rotating to face him. He’s set his mug down and both of us have our hips aligned with the counter.

“Talk?” I asked. “I thought that’s what we were doing already?”

“My world is invitation-only, Sara.”

Sara. He’s used my first name and I know it’s meant to intimidate me. “You hired me. That’s an invitation.”

“Coy doesn’t suit you.”

He’s right. We both know he means to the club. “I was invited.”

“By the wrong person.”

“No. Not the wrong person.”

“Quite the change of heart from our chat two nights ago, when you were quite displeased with him.”

I decide to bypass defending my reasons for being with Chris. It isn’t like Mark will approve. He won’t even say Chris’s name. “I’m good at my job. I’m going to make you lots of money, but my private life is my private life. I don’t belong to you, Mark.” I use his name intentionally.

“Then who do you belong to, Ms. McMillan?”

Chris. That’s the answer he is looking for, the answer Chris would want me to give, but the ghosts of the past roar inside me. My survival instinct refuses to let go of what I’ve fought hard to achieve these past few years in my independence. “I belong to myself.”

Mark’s eyes gleam with satisfaction and I know I’ve made a critical misstep. “A good answer and one I can live with.” His lips twist and he turns away, sauntering toward the exit, only to stop at the door and glance back at me. “There’s no in between. Don’t let him convince you there is.”

He’s gone before I can reply and I feel my knees quake with the aftermath of his words. Chris had said the same thing to me back in his apartment the morning we’d headed out to Napa Valley. No in between, I repeat in my mind. It is a reality I’ve had lurking in the back of my mind all morning. A reality that says “all” means not only that I have to embrace Chris’s dark side fully, no matter where that takes me, and us, but also that I have to show him mine, and I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready and I doubt very seriously he will be, either. Not for this. Not for his own reasons as well.

I fill the two coffee cups and I’m relieved to find Ralph on the phone, and so make my escape back to my office without conversation, quickly and painlessly. Settling behind my desk, I set my mug down and dial David’s office, only to get an answering service. The office is “indefinitely” closed. The choice of words the operator uses sends a chill down my spine. I set the receiver down and stare at the desktop without seeing it.

I’m starting to feel like I’m losing my mind. I can’t see danger everywhere. Ella is in Paris on her honeymoon. She’s fine. I’m letting this Rebecca mystery make my mind run wild. Actually, my whole life feels like it’s running wild whereas only weeks before it was calm and uneventful. I’m standing on a high-rise ledge and walking the edge, and while there is fear and apprehension, there is also a high I can only call an adrenaline rush that I crave more and more each day.

My cell phone rings and I dig it from my purse to see Chris’s number on caller ID. “You made it okay?” I ask when I answer.

“I just landed, and you know how I spent the entire flight?”

He sounds a bit on edge, or maybe I’m on edge. Maybe we both are. “Sleeping, I hope.”

“Thinking about you and not even about fucking you, Sara. About lying in my bed, with you asleep in my arms.”

His confession thrills and worries me. “Why do I feel like I should apologize?”

“Because you chose to stay there and you won’t be sleeping with me tonight.”

“Oh,” I say, and the tension that had curled inside me begins to unwind. Chris is upset that we can’t sleep together tonight?

“I’m not used to anyone having this kind of hold on me,” he continues, his voice dark and troubled. “I feel like I’m crawling out of my own skin.”

I’ve rattled his deep-rooted need for control and I am still struggling with the idea that I have this power over him that he does over me. It pleases me but I am fairly certain it truly has him unsettled. “Just hearing your voice now affects me,” I say, trying to give him the reassurance I would need if I’d just said to him what he’d said to me. “That’s how much of a hold you have on me.”

“Good.” He breathes out and I feel the relief wash over him even through the phone line. “Because it would suck to feel like this alone.”

“Yes,” I say, smiling. “It would suck.” I hear someone shout in the background, and I think Chris is outside the airport, trying to get a cab.

“That would be my cab,” Chris confirms. “Or rather someone getting me a cab. I’ll call you later. And order in lunch today. I’m worried about you going out.” I hear someone, the cab driver, I assume, ask Chris about his bag, and Chris replies before he returns his attention to me. “I’m serious about lunch, Sara. Order in.”

“I’ll be careful, I promise. Catch your cab and call me when you can.”

“Careful isn’t the answer I’m looking for and you know it.” More voices in the background and I hear Chris issue a muffled curse. “I have to go but this conversation is not over. Did you talk with Jacob?”

“He wasn’t around—”

“Sara—”

“I’m fine.”

“The point is keeping you fine.” He makes a frustrated sound. “I’ll call you when I get a break and we will talk about your definition of ‘careful’ and mine.” He hangs up before I can answer, another one of his “control” things.

I drop the phone back into my desk drawer and I am warm all over thinking about Chris’s confessions, and even his concerns when it comes to my safety. I do not know why it feels wicked and wonderful when Chris pretty much bosses me around, but it does. Chris Merit is my adrenaline rush.

The intercom buzzes and Amanda announces, “There’s someone named Jacob on the line for you.”