Chimera (13 page)

A
s the weeks fly by
, none of this is getting any easier. It’s difficult to try to work creatively while answering to someone about my every move. The frustration mounting in me is going to come to an explosive head in the near future if there’s not some sort of progress made.

I fucking hate working out, which we do, five days a week, an hour at a time. I cuss, and that’s a big no-no. I hate checking in with someone about going to work at a studio and having to explain the need to be there instead of my own home. How about the fucking reason is so I don’t lose my goddamn mind? How’s that for reality, Zane? He never tells me I can’t go, but sometimes, I don’t bother attempting to get out because I don’t want to answer a hundred questions about who, what, when, where, and why. The only reason I’ve continued this charade is the hopes of becoming the man Sera needs, but I’m wondering if she’ll ever see me any differently than she did two months ago or five months ago.

I’ve tried to talk to Zane about my frustration, but his response is always the same. “Trust the process.” The
process
isn’t fucking working. Yes, I maintain eye contact now. No, I’m not afraid to ask for things I want or need. I no longer have social anxiety over being in public alone, but my inner irritation is at an all-time high, and it’s starting to affect my work. The agitation stifles my creativity. I’ve trashed my last two paintings because they looked like elementary school shit from a paint-by-number kit. Ferry even asked me what had me blocked. “I see the mental block in your eyes, Bastian. Whatever it is, eliminate it from your life so you can move forward.”

Nate hasn’t spoken to me in three days, nor has he stopped by. The last time he was here, he wanted to go out to eat and I didn’t feel like asking for permission, so I told him no. He made some snarly comment about Ferry or Sera asking me and I’d hop right on out the door. The fight that erupted really had less to do with Nate’s snippy comment or jealousy toward my other friends, and more with the level of agitation at asking permission to go to dinner with my best friend. I’m a grown fucking man. And, he’s wrong; I wouldn’t have gone if Ferry or Sera had asked, either. Zane has become an enormous pain in my ass—one I don’t feel I’m reaping any reward from.

Since Sylvie died, there hasn’t been a single day Nate hasn’t shown up on my doorstep until now. The void I’m harboring becomes unbearable. Unable to take his absence any longer, I text him. I beg him to come over and stop being a dick. An hour later he’s sitting on my couch.

“I don’t get what’s going on, Nate.” His constant irritation confuses me.

“You’ve just changed a lot in the last couple months and I don’t really like who you’re becoming.”

“What?”

“Surely you understand English, Bastian. I don’t like you much these days. You and Ferry have become butt buddies, and you’re a different person around him. You go from being carefree Bastian who loves to paint, to an elite asshole who thinks he’s God. And don’t get me started on your personality flip-flop around Sera, or Christ, that Zane guy. I mean who the hell are you anymore? Do you even know? You’ve got more personalities than Sybil, and I don’t like most of them.”

Absorbing his words, motionless, silently, I contemplate what he’s saying and wonder if I’m ready to give up on this whole quest to be something I may not be cut out for.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Nate. You seem to be pissed off anytime I try to do something for me.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? You aren’t doing
shit
for you! You’re courting Ferry for God knows what reason. You don’t need him, Bastian. If you haven’t noticed, he isn’t putting shit out that doesn’t have your name on it. You, on the other hand, have people lined up on your doorstep waiting for you to throw out a scrap of paper, hoping to get a piece of your work. You can’t paint fast enough to meet the demands. And if you think I’m going to be supportive of whatever it is you’re doing with this Zane character in order to try to get the girl, it’s not going to happen. All you’ve done is become his little bitch, and if you think that’s endearing to Sera, open your fucking eyes. She liked you the way you were, not whatever it is you’re trying to be. Have you picked up on the strain there, or are you blind to that as well?”

I watch him pace circles on my living room floor, his chest heaving from the rush of adrenaline. Nate never loses his cool, but his face is bright red. His blood pressure is probably sky-high, and he’s doing all he can to keep it reeled in.

Before I’m able to respond, he stops, looks me dead in the eyes, and says, “You were created to be who you are Bastian. There’s not a single person alive worth changing that for. I wish you could see the person I see—or the one I
used
to see. I’ve loved you like a brother my entire life. I worried for years I was going to show up one day and find your brains splattered against a wall. Then you met Sera, and for a few brief months, I had my brother back. My best friend was living again. You’re successful. Your art is brilliant. I don’t understand why you want to throw that away in an attempt to be something you’re not. You’re not in competition with Ferry; he doesn’t have something you want. And as much as I hate to tell you this, it’s possible you may never have Sera the way you want her. You need to reconcile all of this in your mind and start to make it right. When you do, give me a call.”

“Don’t be like that. Why does it have to be all or nothing? Why are you so jealous of Ferry and Sera?”

And that there…that blew the top. “I’m not fucking jealous of anyone, Bastian! What is it you think I want? The asshole photographer or the kinky girl? Guess what, I don’t want either one of them, and I don’t think either one of them has brought even an inkling of goodness to your life. Grow the fuck up, Bastian. We aren’t ten anymore fighting on the playground. I’ve fought for your life harder than you have, so don’t give me some bullshit about being jealous of a pompous ass or a flit. Pull your head out of your ass and see what’s really going on around you.”

He grabs his jacket off the arm of the couch and storms out.

“Are you seriously fucking leaving like this? Jesus, Nate, you’ve gotten to be worse than any melodramatic girl I’ve ever known.” I scream out my front door after him and chase him down the sidewalk, insisting on having the last word. He lets me have it, never turning around, just giving me the bird over his shoulder. I notice people standing on the street staring at me. Embarrassed by my outburst, I retreat to my hole. The door slams so hard behind me it knocks a picture I had recently framed to the floor, shattering the glass.

With slumped shoulders and an expressive sigh, I get a broom and dustpan. The picture is one of the last taken of Sylvie. The picture itself is of Nate and me but she photo-bombed the corner at the last minute. It’s always been one of my favorites. It illustrated everything good in my life, tangible proof I was happy at one point in time, and loved. Picture in hand, I sit down in the shards of glass as I start to cry, wondering how I got so far away. Staring at the two people I love most through the pools in my eyes, their image wavers but they seemed like they would always be around, forever my constants. Now I’ve lost one, and if I don’t get my shit together, I’m going to lose the other.

Sera peeks her head around the door as she slowly moves through the glass pieces covering the hardwood. “Bastian?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” I quickly wipe at my face, erasing evidence of devastation.

“What happened? And why are you on the floor? Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine. I knocked a picture down and the glass broke. Just sitting here reminiscing. Watch your step, there’s shards everywhere.” She tiptoes through the mess, and reaches for the broom. I let her sweep up the pieces. I just don’t have the energy to argue or put on the pretense of pretending like she shouldn’t be doing it. Sometimes you just have to let a friend lend a hand. She pushes at my ass with the end of the broom, indicating I need to move in order for her to clean. Getting up, I shake out my clothes, letting the shards fall to the floor.

“Hey, slim shady, why don’t you take off the glasses?”

Like a deer in the headlights, freeze frame, she stops. She doesn’t argue or prepare me for what’s underneath. Her face looks like raw hamburger meat. It’s bruised, swollen, red, black, and brown, with horrible tinges of yellow surrounding it. Her eye is completely shut, the lid puffy like a cherry tomato. I count at least six stitches just underneath her eyebrow covered in shiny goo of some sort, likely antibiotic gel.

“Holy fuck, Sera!” I rush to her and grab her arm. I’m met with a cast hidden by her oversized sweatshirt. The anger boiling to the surface is almost insurmountable. I force myself to acknowledge she came here for comfort, not a lecture. My hand seizes the broom from her, and I say, “Have a seat. Let me clean this up and I’ll get you some coffee or tea. Are you hungry?”

“Some tea would be nice. The pain medicine has pretty much killed my appetite.”

I collect my thoughts in the kitchen while I make her tea. It gives me a couple minutes to reign my anger back in. The last thing I need to do is yell at her for allowing anything like this to happen again.

Taking a seat in the chair across from her, I prop my elbows up on the arms, cross my legs, and attempt to appear calm and casual, as if this is the type of conversation I have daily with my friends.

“When did it happen?” I ask, sipping on my own tea.

Her voice is heavy with despair when she finally speaks. “Last night. I just left the hospital and came here. I called my mom, but she didn’t answer, and she likely won’t return my call. I knew I’d find you. Do you need to let Zane know I’m here?”

Sucker punch to the gut. I know she didn’t mean it to be, but fuck, talk about emasculating. In her mind, she’s being respectful of what I’m doing, but in my perception, she just handed me my balls and stuffed my testosterone up my ass.

Groaning, I dig my cell out of my pocket. I haven’t been in touch with him since I left Stone Ground this morning. He doesn’t know about Nate, either. I chose to leave that part out. I type out a quick message to let him know Sera stopped by and is hanging out for a bit. I know it’s a mistake not to ask if it’s okay, but it really doesn’t matter if it is or isn’t. She’s not leaving until she’s ready to, so I don’t bother. She waits patiently, a soft smile gracing her lips. I wonder how she can smile about anything when she’s apparently been through hell and back in the last twenty-four hours.

I don’t immediately hear back from Zane, thank God.

“How’s that going?”

“Frustrating.” My facial expression says more than I should’ve allowed her to see.

“Not what you thought it would be?”

“None of it surprises me, but I’m not sure how well it’s working out. It’s starting to affect my creativity. I don’t do well with strict structure. When the urge to paint comes, I stop what I’m doing and paint. Having to report to someone twenty-four-seven stifles that.”

“Do you feel like you’re learning a lot?” Her genuine interest reminds me why I started this in the first place.

“I get that he’s instilling discipline and wanting me to understand the role a sub would have under me and the responsibilities a Dom has, but there are parts of my life he’s not taking into account. I’m trying to work through it and around it…but who knows. I can’t sacrifice my hands for my heart.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I can’t give in to everything he wants me to do if in essence I’m losing who I am. If I tie my hands, I can’t paint. In turn, I’m losing my heart, my love, passion. Blocking my creativity is effectively tying my hands.”

“How’s the process hurting your creativity?

“Stopping everything I’m doing to ask permission; it’s demoralizing. It makes me feel like less of a man. It isn’t building my confidence. It’s stripping it away.”

“I see.” I don’t think she does, but whatever. This isn’t about me.

I wave my hand around, magically clearing the subject, mentally erasing the topic at hand, at least in my mind. She giggles at me.

In the most sympathetic voice I can muster, I ask, “What happened, Sera?”

“It was an accident.”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

She shakes her head no. “It won’t help anything. It won’t change how you feel about it or what you think about it. It will just put a name with a couple accidents.”

“Do you really believe these are accidents? That normal people routinely end up with this type of damage? A cast and stitches is not typical lover repercussions.”

“I don’t live a typical lover lifestyle, either.”

“I’m not going to fight with you. I’m not trying to make you unhappy. It hurts me to see you in pain. It makes me want to find the motherfucker and gouge his goddamn eyes out with a spoon. I want to keep you safe, Sera. Surely you understand that.”

Her little giggle gets louder erupting, in full-blown laughter.

“What are you laughing about?”

“You wouldn’t hurt a fly, Bastian. It’s just funny to hear you go all alpha-male, Billy bad ass.”

I absolutely would try to bring this fucker to his knees for touching her in a harmful way, but her words just shoot right through me. Nothing I’ve done has had any impact on her perception of who I am. I’m still just as weak to her as I was the day we met. I can’t deny how much it hurts. Acknowledging putting up with the shit from Zane in an effort to transform, it has done nothing to change who I am in her eyes. I’m no closer to her accepting me into her world than I’ve ever been. The only difference is I’ve now spent a few thousand dollars to have to answer to someone, have a personal trainer who irritates the shit out of me, and feel like a child all over again. Fucking great.

“I’m not as innocent as you seem to believe I am, Sera. I’m very protective, extremely passionate, and fiercely loyal. It might just be wrapped up in a package you aren’t used to seeing.”

She pulls her face back as if to say, “Well!”

I wasn’t trying to put her in her place, but she doesn’t know the real me. She knows the recovering version of me. She knows the written-for-television version of me, the CliffsNotes edition, but not me. I haven’t been around in six years, so she hasn’t seen the healthy me, the full-length version, the extended edition. She only sees broken, mending Bastian. It hits me like a ton of bricks—I don’t need some mentor, I need to pull my head out of my ass and remember my roots and who I am, where I came from, the person I loved being. That person may not have been your typical asshole, dominant male, but he was certainly self-assured, confident, fearless, and bold. Yes, I have an artistic flare, I’m a fucking artist, but I’m pure man and she hasn’t seen that.